A Game of Sets and Matches
by Here Be Monsters
Summary: Tennis is a game whose tensions go far deeper than the court. In the spectators boxes of the Martells and the Starks, pressures are rising. Relationships, both negative and positive, are forming. And as the lines between Stark and Martell are blurred, people tend to forget that everything is playing out in front of the world's paparazzi...
1. Chapter 1

Arianne had been going to Wimbledon every year since she was four years old. Always an impeccably behaved child, she had happily perched on the laps of every important person at every match she had been to, cooing happily as she was passed from the mother of a prospective champion onto a victor of years almost forgotten.

As a member of the prestigious Martell family, who had land and titles and huge, sprawling manor houses, Arianne always got a good seat, among the best of people. It helped that her uncle ran a tennis academy on the side, as well. She had been in the Royal Box by the age of seven. As soon as she turned sixteen, gossip rags began writing exposés on her flighty, foreign-money mother; absent, mysterious father and smooth, deal-brokering uncle. By the time she was eighteen, she had been romantically linked to four major tennis players (in reality, it had only been two).

While her brother Trystane hated sitting still for a full hour, let alone the unknown lengths of a professional tennis game, her other brother Quentyn shared her love of the sport. It was one of the few passions they shared, and Arianne made the most of it, ensuring she sat next to her silent brother at every opportunity, and went out to practice with him every Saturday morning.

By the time she was fourteen, Arianne knew that she herself would never be a champion, yet Quentyn still plodded on, desperately hoping that one day he would wake up a tennis god.

Sadly, it never happened.

Yet, Quentyn still persevered. Playing doubles to a reasonable level, singles to a low professional level, her brother continued along his well-worn path of boring, reliable mediocrity.

Finally, after years of trying, at the age of twenty-four, Quentyn made it through to the second round of Wimbledon, her personal favourite of the Grand Slams. The entire Martell family was ecstatic. Realistically, Oberyn had given up any serious hope for Quentyn years ago, but he was still more than happy to give lengthy interviews about the overlooked talent of his nephew, even while basking in praise for his most recent protégée, Daemon Sand, who had recently won the French Open.

On the day of Quentyn's first ever second round singles match in a Grand Slam, Arianne had dressed herself impeccably. Designer white dress paired with stylish brown slip-ons and huge sunglasses, long black hair styled to perfection and wafting delicately around her face, Arianne could feel the pre-match cameras fixed on her, could imagine the headlines already.

Taking her seat in the box set aside for Quentyn's family, Arianne began listening half-heartedly to her cousin Tyene's definitive ranking of the looks of male tennis players. Whipping her phone out of her pocket, Tyene called up the internet and waved a photo in Arianne's face, "Loras Tyrell is bloody gorgeous, don't you think?"

"A bit feminine, don't you think, sweetie?" Arianne smiled and leaned back in her chair.

"Not at all," Tyene twisted to show her phone to Nymeria and Obara, sitting in the row behind them. "Hot or not, ladies?"

"Not," her sisters replied decisively.

"Fine. His sister's a bitch, anyway. She knocked Sarella out of the Olympics last year, remember?" Arianne nodded vacantly, peering anxiously down to see when the players would be coming out.

"What about Daario Naharis?"

"He lives and breathes Targaryen Tennis International, babe," came a voice from behind them, "he has no interest in Martell girls. Not even ones who don't carry the name." Daemon Sand slid into the seat next to Arianne, Oberyn following him.

"Daemon, honey. What're you doing here?" Arianne finished hugging her uncle in welcome and turned to her old friend.

"Quentyn was my earliest doubles partner. I want him to do well, even if we'll have to play each other later in the Championships if he wins."

"So a no to Daario, then?" Tyene was already searching a new name on Google.

"Definitely."

The Martell box finally settled down, everybody waiting for Quentyn's arrival. Suddenly, the box directly opposite them burst into noise as it filled with people.

"Stark hangers-on incoming," muttered Daemon, earning a smirk from Oberyn.

Arianne ceased her watching of the tunnel from where her brother would soon emerge to watch the Stark box.

"Who are those people?" asked Obara, disgust evident in her voice.

"Robb Stark's siblings. He has five – two sisters, three brothers. Plus his doubles partner, Theon Greyjoy, and Robb's parents. Recognise Ned Stark? Remember when he was king of the tennis world? Just a pathetic old man now."

"How the mighty have fallen," grinned Oberyn, looking at the man who once cost him a gold medal. "Let's just hope that Quentyn takes his son to pieces."

Arianne continued staring at the Stark box, watching the happy family take their seats and arrange their bags. She narrowed her eyes at the sight of Theon Greyjoy sitting, preening himself, among the Starks. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

Suddenly, a man of about her age looked up and met her gaze. His eyes were bright blue, and his hair curly and inky black. She held his stare for a second, before an intense cheer rose up around her, indicating the arrival of the two players on court.

Robb Stark swaggered on first, all stubble and confidence, oozing charisma. Arianne's heart broke for her little brother as he followed the Stark boy onto court. In comparison, Quentyn seemed dull and uninspiring, shuffling onto court with a pitifully hopeful smile and a ridiculously large racquet bag.

Most of the cheering from the crowd was for Robb, but Arianne screamed loud enough for her brother than he turned to look up at her, his smile widening. Her heart broke a little more with each passing second.

The match was torture. Quentyn was on the road to a straight sets loss, Arianne could feel it. Her cousins had returned to ranking tennis players on hotness, while Oberyn had started texting business contacts and arranging meetings in only an hour or so – he had no faith in the game lasting any more than a few more minutes.

Daemon, however, looked just as gutted as Arianne felt. With every unforced error, every badly aimed shot, Quentyn's body language became more dejected and Arianne turned even greyer. Robb Stark, meanwhile, wore a smug smile. Arianne wanted to slap him.

Although mostly quite respectful, the Stark box were a lot more vocal than the Martells. Every point Robb won was met with a cry of joy, whilst Arianne was pretty sure she had heard the odd boo when Quentyn had made a good shot. Her hatred of the unconsciously perfect family was slowly increasing, and she let it show in her expression, sending death-glares at them as often as was necessary.

At the end of the third set, Robb had a match point on Quentyn's serve. Arianne was on the edge of her seat, desperately hoping that her brother could claw back just a few more points. In the pressure of the moment, Quentyn fluffed his first serve.

"No matter," murmured Daemon, "every player uses their second serve nowadays."

Arianne reached out and grabbed Daemon's hand, squeezing it hard as her brother lined up his next serve. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement on the opposite side of the court, but ignored it.

Quentyn smashed his second serve into the net. The Stark family cheered, one particularly plain girl even pointing at Quentyn and laughing.

The crowd went wild as Robb Stark leaped into the air, waving his racquet around victoriously and doing a little jig next to his seats, before running over to the wall nearest his family and shaking his arms at them in a maniacal wave.

Quentyn waited patiently to shake Stark's hand, then moved over to the umpire and did the same. When he finally got over to his bags he packed them in efficient silence, before walking over to the tunnel and leaving. Stark remained on the court, signing autographs. No one seemed to want Quentyn to sign anything.

Arianne was out of her seat in a moment, shoving past Tyene to get down the stairs. Checking she still had her ID card around her neck, she fished her phone out of her pocket as it vibrated. A text message from Trystane, who was completing an internship in the City and couldn't attend, read, 'oh sh1t. what hpnd?'. Arianne snarled and put her phone back in her pocket, pushing her sunglasses up onto the top of her head as she entered the indoor section of the All England Tennis Club.

Moving swiftly through the corridors of the club, Arianne flashed her ID which showed her to be a family member of a competitor, breaking into a run as she got close to the changing rooms. Her phone vibrated again, flashing up messages from Tyene, Daemon and Trystane. Tyene's read, 'Left your handbag, silly. Meet you by Court 2 – Sarella's on in 20 mins!', while Trystane's said, 'tell him I thnk Robb S is a git, and so does Myrcella'. Arianne was just clicking on Daemon's words of wisdom when she collided with something large and solid.

She glanced up from her screen, conscious of the bodies moving all around her. She raised her eyes until they were looking straight ahead, and got a good look at someone's collarbone. Looking higher, she finally found soulful blue eyes and silky black hair.

The boy from the Stark box. Perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

The man from the Stark box looked at her, his lip quirking slightly in a small, hopeful smile that reminded Arianne of the smile Quentyn had given her as he walked out onto court. She straightened her back, flicking her hair over her shoulders and lowering the arm which held her phone so that she was so longer touching him.

While the man looked reasonably reserved, shy almost, the people he was with were loud and brash and blatant. Arianne only recognised one of them, and it was an individual she wasn't happy to see.

"Arianne Martell. Baby, what're you doing here? Looking for some proper tennis players to spend the evening with? Don't worry, we'll let you come with us. We'll even let you come for free," Theon Greyjoy leered unsubtly at her, moving consciously into her personal space.

"Go and drown yourself in a toilet, Greyjoy. Get out of my way." Arianne started to edge carefully around the group, which seemed to be mostly comprised of groupies and the odd wannabe tennis star. She made hesitant eye contact with the boy with the romantic eyes, before ripping her gaze away and forcing herself forwards.

"Come on baby, don't be like that," Theon whined, moving to block Arianne's path again.

"Lay off, Greyjoy," muttered Blue Eyes. "Just let her go."

Arianne turned her most glowing smile on Theon, "I suggest you listen to your friend, Greyjoy. Leave me alone."

Theon reached out to grab Arianne's arm, but she was faster, hurrying away down the corridor, fully aware of how her brother was currently all alone, and of the constant vibrating of her phone in her pocket.

When she finally arrived at the locker rooms, another party of Starks had gathered. Ned and his wife Catelyn, as well as their other children, were sitting on the benches and floor of Robb's side of the room. Robb himself was nowhere to be seen, but Arianne could hear the whirring groan of a power shower coming from somewhere inside the room.

Quentyn was sitting curled up on a bench next to his racquet bag. His hair was still slick with sweat, but he had removed his headband and dirty tennis whites to change into jeans and a green t-shirt with his sponsor's logo on the front. He had his phone in his lap, but the screen was dark and empty.

As Arianne went in, the Stark family turned to see who it was. Catelyn and Sansa both gave her small smiles, while she received a nod of recognition from Ned. She returned the smiles and nods, making a deliberate effort to switch off her anger. There was no point to it now.

Quentyn still hadn't acknowledged her entrance, he seemed so caught up in his thoughts that she doubted he would unless she spoke to him directly.

Arianne walked carefully over to him, sliding onto the bench next to him gracefully. "Hey there, Q. Ready to go?"

Quentyn turned to look at her, utter misery in his eyes. "Sure." He turned to grab his hoodie from a peg next to him, desperation surging from every movement. Arianne's phone vibrated again, and she pulled it from her pocket to check it discreetly. A reminder popped up cheerfully to remind her that Sarella's match was about to begin.

Although she tried to get her phone back in her pocket quickly, Quentyn still saw. If possible, he seemed to deflate even more. "Do you have to go to Sarella's match?"

"Of course not. I'll come to the press conference with you, then we'll go home. I'll catch the train with you. We can go to that bakery you like on the way and pick up some honey cakes."

Quentyn tried for a smile, "That sounds good. Thanks, Ari."

From her seat among her family, Catelyn Stark smiled warmly at Arianne.

Quentyn stood up and began to retrieve his bags, but Arianne stopped him. "No way, _hermano_. Bag swap. You take mine, I'll take yours."

He conceded, allowing Arianne to pick up his bag and sling it over her shoulder. After a moment's confusion, he pulled on her arm to stop her from leaving the room. "Ari, your bag isn't here."

Arianne snarled as she remembered Tyene's text. Of course today would be the day that she left her handbag behind on court, only to have it carted off to Sarella's game, which she had just promised she wouldn't be attending. "I left it with Tyene by accident. Never mind – we can get a taxi. She'll be on Court 2 by now."

"Jon's on Court 2," blurted a voice from among the Starks. "He can get it for you, I'm sure. He wouldn't mind." Arianne turned to see the younger Stark girl leaning forward, in the process of awkwardly standing up to join the conversation.

"You shouldn't eavesdrop, Arya. It's rude," hissed Sansa Stark from between her father and youngest brother.

"You were listening too! I'm only trying to help," argued Arya.

Catelyn waved a hand between her daughters, then turned a maternal smile on the Martell children. "While I apologise for my daughter's eavesdropping, I agree with her. We can ask Jon to get your bag and meet you at the main gates, if you would like."

Seeing Arianne's evident hesitation, Ned Stark joined the conversation. "Honestly, Miss Martell, Jon wouldn't mind. It'll give him something to do."

"Get your brother home, dear," added Catelyn, eyeing Quentyn with sympathy.

"Thank you, Mr and Mrs Stark. If 'Jon' could do that for me, I would be very grateful." Arianne strode over to the Starks, before shaking hands with each family member. The youngest two boys, one of whom was sitting awkwardly in a wheelchair she hadn't noticed before, giggled at the formality. "I'm Arianne Martell, this is my brother Quentyn. But I'm sure you know that already."

Catelyn smiled, "I'm Catelyn. This is my husband Ned, daughters Sansa and Arya, and sons Bran and Rickon." Each person smiled as they were introduced.

"And Robb, of course," announced the man himself, swaggering out of the shower with one towel wrapped around his waist and another over his arm.

Arianne shook hands with Robb as briefly as possible, fully aware of her brother stiffening and shrinking in on himself behind her. "Well played, Robb. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Arianne. Same to your brother. Now, about Jon's little adventure. If you give me your phone number, I'll keep you updated on my brother's progress."

Arianne recited her number, before thanking everyone again and leading her brother from the room. Hand in hand, the Martell children walked down the corridor, towards the audible clamour of paparazzi.

"Oh god," muttered Quentyn.

"Don't worry, Q. I'll be here, and we'll be home soon," Arianne shook their clasped hands. "You'll be fine."

As Quentyn mounted the stage to answer questions about the match, Arianne fired off a text to Tyene. 'Incoming – someone named Jon. Give him my bag, I'm going home with Q. Phone me later, and say sorry to Sarella for me. –A xx'


End file.
